


Naps and Other Surprises

by out_there



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: The angel is a surprisingly good kisser. All soft lips and gentle sighs, and the careful graze of fingertips along Crowley's jaw. But there's also the scrape of fingernails at the nape of his neck, the pins and needles shiver it sends down his spine, the slightest catch of teeth on his lower lip.





	Naps and Other Surprises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/gifts).



> Thanks to Misbegotten for beta-reading and cheerleading. This is set vaguely post-apocalypse sometime, because what I really wanted to write after watching the series was smut.
> 
> For Celli, since I wouldn't have written it without emailing her about Good Omens.

The angel is a surprisingly good kisser. 

Crowley isn't used to surprises. He's used to humans coming up with new and strange ways to make their own lives more difficult, but that's not surprising. (It's always interesting but Crowley's never surprised when a human finds another way to make someone else's life worse.) He's known Aziraphale for 6000 years, knows him well enough to impersonate him in Heaven; Crowley knows him well enough that he shouldn't be surprised by anything Aziraphale does.

And yet... the angel can kiss. All soft lips and gentle sighs, and the careful graze of fingertips along Crowley's jaw. But there's also the scrape of fingernails at the nape of his neck, the pins and needles shiver it sends down his spine, the slightest catch of teeth on his lower lip.

Crowley groans in surprise -- a good groan, a keep doing that groan -- and Aziraphale gives a happy shimmy in Crowley's lap, taking full advantage of the fact that breathing is more habit than necessity for both of them.

It's not that Crowley's given a lot of thought to this. No self-respecting demon is going to sit around wondering how angels define the bounds of divine ecstasy. He hasn't spent hours imagining how Aziraphale might kiss, but if the thought had crossed his mind… Well. The closest Aziraphale comes to physical dexterity is a ridiculous dance it took him two years to master. He's seen Aziraphale knock over forgotten cocoa mugs and absentmindedly miracle doorways a foot to the left to avoid walking into walls. Stands to reason that clumsy and awkward would be his defining physical traits.

This whole thing is a surprise, a strange congruence of a nice bottle of wine and a nap on Aziraphale's old armchair. Blinking awake and finding Aziraphale right there, leaning down to settle a blanket over him, so close Crowley barely had to move to wrap a hand around Aziraphale's wrist. Both of them caught like that -- close, touching, frozen for too long to turn away and ignore it -- until Aziraphale smiled. Until he said, "Oh, my _dear_ ," so terribly fondly and leaned down to kiss Crowley.

Good kisses. Surprisingly good kisses. Kisses that didn’t stop as Aziraphale climbed into Crowley’s lap, the armchair suddenly big enough for both of them.

Aziraphale fists his hand in Crowley's hair and gives a light tug, just enough to make Crowley hiss and tilt his chin up. And then Aziraphale's mouth is on his neck, warm tongue licking along the tendon, leaving a cold stripe of skin behind. There's a scrape of teeth and Crowley gets his hands on the soft give of Aziraphale waist, holding on for dear life.

"Sssso," Crowley says and he couldn't hold the hiss back if he tried, "done thisss a few timesss, angel?"

Aziraphale barely lifts his mouth from Crowley's neck. Crowley can feel his lips move when he speaks, his breath warm against Crowley’s skin. "A few. Here and there."

"A few?"

"You know how it is." There's a lingering kiss to Crowley's collarbone, warm and unhurried. A hand sneaking under the edge of his collar, fingertips exploring whatever bare skin they can reach, sliding down his chest. "Not for a while." 

Crowley wishes this century involved a lot less clothing. He misses togas. Togas would be great right now. "No?" He's glad he's still wearing his sunglasses when Aziraphale raises his head. God-- Satan-- Fuck knows what the angel would see on his face without them.

"Quite a while," Aziraphale says, as softly earnest as only he can be. He looks thoughtful for a moment. "But I suppose the basics never really go out of style."

"I'll take your word for it." Crowley's never bothered lying to Aziraphale, not really. (He saves his best lies for his reports to Down Below.) He's not going to lie now, especially not when the truth is its own source of fun. 

Aziraphale's face is one of the best storytellers Crowley knows. There's the widened eyes of surprise, a raised questioning brow, a bemused quirk of lips as Aziraphale thinks it through, and then a rapid blink as Aziraphale tries to work out what to say. "In all this time…?" 

"Don't make too much of it."

"Well, yes, but surely…" Aziraphale trails off, and Crowley can't resist raising an eyebrow at him.

"Surely?" Crowley asks, hiss firmly under control.

"I just assumed. I mean, the slinking around and-- well, the smirking at strangers. And the very tight trousers," Aziraphale says primly as if Crowley's wardrobe alone is scandalous. To the angel, it might be. When they haven't seen each other for a decade, Aziraphale always takes an extra moment to look Crowley up and down, lingering if his trousers are a little tight. Crowley still remembers the first time Aziraphale saw him in doublet and hose. Flustered would be putting it mildly.

"Yes, angel?"

Only Aziraphale could straddle a demon's lap and pause thoughtfully, gazing around the corners of his backroom as he tries to remember details. Only Aziraphale could make it seem perfectly reasonable. "Not even 1372? They had those wonderful stuffed quails and you were spending a lot of time tempting in the Vatican."

"Tempting, sure, but I never had to follow through on it." Aziraphale had not been impressed to find him there, but once he'd realised Head Office had decided lust was the sin of the century -- it took them until the fifteenth century to get over that stupid idea -- he'd agreed to look the other way. They'd had some very nice lunches, even if quails were a waste of stuffing. "A little suggestion, some sexual frustration. They figured the rest out themselves."

Aziraphale makes the face that says he understands -- they were only humans after all -- but he's not going to admit that out loud. It's a familiar expression. "I suppose I jumped to conclusions. I apologise for judging by appearances. A book by its cover, so to speak."

"Some foxing? Near mint?"

Aziraphale purses his lips, trying not to laugh. His hand is still on Crowley's chest, his bare palm pressed over a heart that only beats when Crowley remembers to think of it. Crowley's own hands are on the angel's sides, layers of soft and well-worn tweed between his hands and bare skin.

Crowley only realises he's staring at Aziraphale's mouth when he sees Aziraphale smile delightedly. "Perhaps we should take this to bed," Aziraphale says and suddenly -- embarrassingly fast -- they're in Crowley's bed. Naked. Crowley glares at the candles that have popped into existence on the bedside table. They pop back out of existence.

"You could have let me lock up first," Aziraphale chides gently. There's a look of concentration on his face and then he nods. "That's better. Now, where were we?"

Given that they're naked and in bed, Crowley assumes that's a rhetorical question. Aziraphale is sitting in his lap and they've both made an Effort, so it should be self-explanatory. 

Crowley lets his gaze wander. Aziraphale has loved wearing layers since they were invented and it feels like millennia since he's seen Aziraphale's bare shoulders, sturdier than they appear under the soft slope of his favourite coat. There's a light dusting of pale hair down Aziraphale's chest, pale curls that suit him perfectly, but it stops just below his ribs, above the curve of belly. It's not a physique seen in movies and magazines these days. It's better than that. It's a physical manifestation of Aziraphale's treasures on earth: good wine and good food, afternoons spent wandering along the park or cocooned in a comfortable armchair, reading everything he can.

Crowley slides his hands across the pale skin, over hips and solid thighs, pushing his palms up to curl fingers around Aziraphale's sides. There's something luxurious about it, the give of flesh beneath his hands, the way Aziraphale's lashes flutter when he smooths his fingers down Aziraphale's chest. Heady and indulgent, and so suited to Aziraphale's joyous appetites.

"Have you forgotten something?" Aziraphale asks gently. He drops a light touch to Crowley's head, like the first stirrings of a warm summer breeze.

Perhaps, Crowley thinks, letting his gaze fall between Aziraphale's spread thighs, the cock rising firm and rosy from pale blond curls.

"I meant your glasses," Aziraphale says, tone too sweet to be coy. Gentle with Crowley in a way that no mortal would dare to be and no other immortal would bother.

In his haste to get them here and get them naked, Crowley completely forgot about his sunglasses. He wears them more often than not these days, although not usually in his own flat. "Didn't stop you from kissing me earlier."

"No," Aziraphale agrees easily. He leans forward until their noses touch. Crowley can feel the brush of curls against his forehead, but Aziraphale doesn't close that last inch between their lips. "But are you sure you want them on?"

Crowley doesn't need to look to know the angel will be shameless. His brows will be high and questioning, and he'll look at Crowley with such hope, as if Crowley could fix the world for him. And whatever it is, Crowley will do it. (This is why they still perform Hamlet to sold-out shows on the West End.) He doesn't need to look... but he looks anyway.

"Fine," Crowley says begrudgingly. A snap of his fingers and the sunglasses are gone.

There's a brilliant smile and Aziraphale's heartfelt, "Thank you," and then they're kissing again. Better than before with so much bare skin pressed together. Crowley basks in it, the reassuring weight above him, the heat between their bodies. The warm skin under his hungry hands. He wants to hold Aziraphale close, wants to wrap his body around him, skin to skin and not an inch between them.

They don't need to breathe but Aziraphale pulls away, panting a little. He drops light, breezy kisses to the bow of Crowley's lip, the corner of his mouth, to his chin. There's a line of these soft, silly kisses along Crowley's jaw and Crowley tilts his head obligingly. He keeps his arms wrapped tight around Aziraphale's back, fingers drawing nonsense patterns over the back of Aziraphale's shoulders as Aziraphale kisses higher. Then Aziraphale gently bites his ear and Crowley makes a sound like a surprised wildebeest.

It's not sexy. It's not a sound made by the kind of human Crowley appears to be. But thank someone for Aziraphale, who doesn't stop, doesn't tease him for it or ask if he's okay, Aziraphale who drags the skin between his teeth and sends a jolt of sensation straight to Crowley's cock.

Crowley's never seen the point of earlobes, just a design quirk that don't do much. It's a ridiculous place to feel so good. But he's got his fingers clawed into Aziraphale's shoulders, hissing out a plea as Aziraphale nibbles and bites. There's a soothing kiss and then another scrape of teeth, and Crowley's not sure demons were ever meant to feel this good. Forget holy water, this is the way to go.

"Oh, just wait," Aziraphale says warmly, and Crowley wonders how much of that he said aloud. When Aziraphale looks down at him, Crowley finds himself thinking of the 1937 Leroy Richebourg and a rainy Tuesday afternoon spent at the back of the bookshop, drinking some truly fantastic wine. Aziraphale wore a similar expression when he unexpectedly found a case of the burgundy hidden in the basement: ridiculously happy and about to enjoy something without reservation. "This is only entrees."

"Skip to the mains, angel."

There's a tiny frown -- Aziraphale likes lingering over meals and Crowley usually indulges him -- but it's gone quickly. "Any particular requests?"

Crowley's mind goes blank. He'd have to be deaf and blind not to have some idea of what the humans currently consider popular sex acts, but it's not like he's given any personal thought to it. It's just another of those strange things humans do for fun, like skydiving or watching other people watch TV.

Crowley gives the faint impression of a shrug. "Chef's choice."

"Oh, in that case," Aziraphale says with a happy little wiggle that Crowley feels everywhere, "I know just the thing."

He seems far too confident about the whole thing.

"How many times is a few, angel?" Crowley mutters suspiciously.

Aziraphale raises himself up into the perfect semblance of a prim and righteous angel. The twinkle in his eyes gives him away. "You can't be jealous of mortals who aren't alive any more."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No, you old serpent." Aziraphale drops a kiss to his nose and Crowley almost goes cross-eyed in surprise. "But it would be a waste of time. And I've never known you to begrudge people finding pleasure in life."

Crowley's not quite sure that's a compliment. He's puzzling over it as Aziraphale pushes himself up and off Crowley's lap. "Angel?"

"Be a dear and roll over," Aziraphale says like he's asking Crowley to pass a book or miracle up an umbrella. Not a command, more of an off-handed request, as if this is something they do all the time. There’s something reassuring about that nonchalance, Crowley thinks, shuffling over to his stomach.

He settles on the mattress, folding one of the pillows under his head and right shoulder, settling with his face turned to the plain concrete wall. All of his bedroom walls are plain; Crowley likes sleeping in the dark so his bedroom has no windows. He frequently sleeps like this, stretched out on his stomach, arms curled around a pillow, but usually tucked in a cocoon of down-filled duvets.

The air feels cold on his bare back. He can feel a draft as Aziraphale moves behind him, the mattress dipping as Aziraphale settles beside him.

Humans are simple creatures. Stretch and smile and walk the right way, and their minds instantly turn to the explicit. He doubts something as obvious as posing and preening would work on the angel, so Crowley keeps his eyes closed and waits.

Aziraphale starts by resting a hand on his back, palm lying where Crowley's wings would be. Crowley doesn't allow the squirm he can feel building; he stays still as Aziraphale drags his palm slowly down to the sway of his back and then back up his spine. Another slow brush down and back up, and Crowley has to press his elbows into the mattress to maintain his composure.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says softly, hand dragging up to the curve of Crowley's shoulder, back down his spine, "I wanted to--"

"Whatever," Crowley says quickly because what he means is anything. Anything Aziraphale wants. Whatever it takes to keep him here and touching Crowley. He doesn't care about the what as long as Aziraphale stays.

"You will say if it's too much or if you don't like it."

"Stop fussing, angel." Crowley wraps his arms tighter around the pillow. There are a few obvious acts suggested by this position -- frottage, intercrural, penetration -- and it's not as if Crowley has a particular preference.

Aziraphale swings a leg over Crowley's hips and rests his weight on Crowley's thighs. It doesn't suggest any particular sex act. Frankly, it leaves Crowley a little confused until Aziraphale settles his hands either side of Crowley's spine and digs into the muscles with his thumbs.

"Nmrgh," Crowley says as Aziraphale's strong fingers find a particularly tense knot. He works it over in small circles, the sensation caught somewhere between painful and satisfying, and then soothes over with firm sliding strokes, kneading the flesh with the heels of his hands.

Crowley enjoys massages. He usually gets one every few years, depending on the decade. He likes warm hands working out the kinks, the indulgence of laying there and drifting away as someone else fixes the awkward mechanics of the human body. Sometimes he'll even fall asleep on the masseuse's table.

What Aziraphale may lack in training and technique, he makes up in care and patience. He follows every tense muscle, working on it until the pressure suddenly eases. Then he moves his hands up or across, finding the next tight spot and working on that.

He's an angel. If he wanted Crowley to relax, he could have made it so with a little concentration. But this way is so much better. This way is hands and warmth, Crowley pressing back when he gets that really good spot. It's Crowley sinking further into the mattress, melting like wax as the tension eases. It's Aziraphale's steady weight on his legs, anchoring him, and Aziraphale's determined fingers working around his shoulder blades, around wing muscles that aren't quite there on this plane of existence. 

Aziraphale works up and over the meat of the shoulder, a little more careful as his thumbs slide over Crowley's neck. Then he digs his fingers into the base of Crowley's skull and Crowley makes a sound that has no consonants at all.

"Good?" Aziraphale checks quietly.

Crowley manages a groan. He can feel his scalp tingling. "Don'stop," he says, so slurred he sounds drunk.

Aziraphale laughs softly and presses a kiss to the back of Crowley's head. It feels patronising and approving, and Crowley would complain if that didn't involve some form of movement.

Crowley feels boneless. Like he's melted onto the sheet. Like gravity has become an undefeatable force. He's just a collection of nerve endings and muscles, and the occasional sigh as Aziraphale's hands start working their way down again.

"That's better," Aziraphale says, warm like a fresh mug of cocoa, warm like the bookshop on a wintry day. Not coolly temperate like Heaven, not muggy and sweltering like the press of bodies in Hell. Warm like a summer afternoon in London, like standing in St James Park with the sun on his back and the smell of wildflowers on the breeze.

The steady pressure of Aziraphale's hands work back down Crowley's spine. Lighter now, soothing over where knots used to be. There's a slide of fingertips over the small of Crowley's back, and then a warm kiss pressed to his spine. A second kiss, lower. Crowley allows a breathy sigh at the third, the open-mouthed kiss to his tailbone, the angel's tongue against his skin.

In hindsight, it's quite obvious. Given Aziraphale's love of food, given his love of taste and touch and smell, of course he would gravitate towards an act involving the mouth. 

Crowley spreads his legs helpfully. "You could have just said what you wanted."

"You seemed tense," Aziraphale says, artless and innocent if not for the way his hands are sliding up Crowley's thighs.

"Now I'm so relaxed I could fall asleep."

"I doubt that will be a problem," Aziraphale says smugly, digging his thumbs into Crowley's arse and spreading him wide.

Crowley has the foresight to bite his lip, to give himself a tiny sensory distraction from the first warm, wet lick. He manages to stay silent for the second touch but he can't stop his gasp on the third. Aziraphale is patient. Aziraphale luxuriates. He eats Crowley out the way he consumes cake, glacially slow, the strangest combination of gluttony and self-control that Crowley's ever seen. As if he could happily spend the rest of the night doing this, taking Crowley apart with delicate little licks, pausing to blow on the sensitised skin and make Crowley shiver.

When he does finally, finally push his tongue inside, Crowley claws his fingers into the sheet and presses his face into the pillow, thankful he doesn't have to breathe. It doesn't quite muffle the groan he makes, but it helps.

Aziraphale raises his head. "If it's too much--"

Crowley lifts his head from the pillow to hiss, "Don't you dare ssstop."

"Oh, good," Aziraphale replies, delighted. There's a fond kiss to Crowley's back and then that mouth on his arse, that tongue pushing inside him.

Crowley wraps his arms around the pillow. Even if he knows there's no way it could camouflage the sounds he's making, at least he can hide his face. Especially when Aziraphale digs his fingers in and spreads him wider, and Crowley suddenly remembers a dusty street in Constantinople, so long ago. Aziraphale digging his fingers into a pomegranate, pulling the outside apart to get to the sweet fruit. Crowley remembers ducking his head, watching from the shadow of his hood as Aziraphale licked the juice from his fingers.

He's a demon. He's supposed to want things. Lust and gluttony and all the other sins. Still, he'd never imagined wanting to be that pomegranate. But he definitely is. The way Aziraphale keeps licking, the happy little hum as he works deeper and Crowley whines…

If not for Aziraphale's hands on his hips, spreading him open, pinning him down, Crowley would be squirming against the sheets. As it is, he's spreading his legs wider in invitation, gasping at oxygen he doesn't even need.

His skin feels too tight, his whole body flushed and sweating. He can feel the cotton sheets against him when he shifts, how good it feels even if it's nowhere near enough. The hard give of the mattress under his palms and the noise the sheet makes as he clenches his fists. The echo of his own shameless groaning. And none of it compares to Aziraphale's sinfully good tongue. To the shivery not-enough and too-much feeling of it. Overwhelming and frustrating and yet Crowley hears himself begging when Aziraphale pulls back.

"I'm not stopping, dear," Aziraphale reassures him quickly, kneeling over him with a hand under Crowley's hip. "Up. On your knees."

Crowley makes a confused noise but he follows the tug at his hip, clumsily gets his legs to cooperate enough to kneel. His weight presses into the pillow, his fingers still twisted in the sheet.

"That's it," Azirphale says with a kiss to his lower rib. "Just there." There's a kiss to the edge of Crowley's hip and then Aziraphale's hands on him again and Aziraphale's mouth. In the midst of Aziraphale's tongue learning him inside and out, in the midst of that tender, uninterrupted attention, Crowley had almost forgotten about his cock. But on his knees, his arse up in the air, he can feel it hanging hard between his legs, nothing around it but cool air.

Cool air, and then Aziraphale's warm hand. Firm steady grip, starting with one slow stroke. Crowley whimpers, pressing back towards Aziraphale, towards the tongue twisting and pressing inside him. Aziraphale retreats to shallow licks and a flat press of tongue across his hole, his hand moving faster. Crowley's body doesn't know what to do, caught between fast tugs and light, slow licks. Aziraphale pulls back, only breathing on the damp, sensitive skin, hand moving faster. His grip gets tighter on Crowley's cock, the end inevitable. Crowley can feel it building, that final crest, and then Aziraphale licks inside him and he comes with a grunt, with stars behind his eyelids, with Aziraphale's tongue inside him.

For a moment, for a short perfect moment, Crowley may have stopped time. He collapses into the mattress and feels the seconds tick by again.

"Crowley, did you just…?" Aziraphale asks and Crowley opens one eye to glare at him. The angel is dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief that wasn't in this room a few minutes ago.

"No."

"I'm quite sure I felt time slow down."

"No," Crowley says again, and closes his eyes before the angel makes him admit it.

***

When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is sitting against a padded headboard that wasn't there this morning, reading a book two inches thick. He looks comfortable and familiar, even with those outdated circular spectacles perched on his nose. He doesn’t match the dramatic lines of Crowley’s flat, the hard angles and sharp silhouettes, but Crowley likes the contrast.

Crowley blinks once. "What happened?" The following yawn answers that question.

"You fell asleep."

Crowley rolls over and stretches. His spine feels three inches longer than normal. It's lovely. "Your seduction technique could do with some work. Mutual orgasms, for instance."

"You fell asleep," Aziraphale says pointedly. "I've never seen the appeal of somnophilia."

Crowley grins at the angel's joke. He's far too relaxed to hide his amusement. "I'm awake now."

Aziraphale's expression is conflicted, like he's caught between what he should do and what he wants to do. Crowley's seen that look before, usually just before Aziraphale toes the company line and pretends to believe it. Crowley has the sinking feeling of lost opportunity, that rueful suspicion that he should have made more of an effort before Aziraphale doubted himself.

"If you still want to," Crowley says gently. He knows Aziraphale, his reckless moments of compassion and his ability to spend the next fifty years worrying about it. Crowley's never met anyone more stubborn or less likely to be talked into something he doesn't want to do. "I'll understand if you've changed your mind."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, stricken, "that's not it at all. It's just… I'm… Well. I'm halfway through this chapter." He waves the book in his hand a little hopelessly. "It's very good," he adds in a small voice.

Crowley doesn't laugh but it's a near thing. "Go ahead."

"Oh, my dear, really? I don't mind stopping," Aziraphale says, not convincing in the least.

Crowley slithers closer, hooking an arm around Aziraphale. He's warm and comfortable. Lying this close to Aziraphale, he can feel the thrum of the divine, like sunlight and ozone and a crisp, cool wind. Add the smell of old paper and aged glue, and Crowley couldn't imagine any place more comfortable. "Wake me up when you're finished."

Aziraphale presses a fond kiss to his forehead. He shuffles down the bed a little, wrapping an arm around Crowley's shoulder and holding the book behind Crowley's back. Crowley lays his head on Aziraphale's chest and closes his eyes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Naps and Other Surprises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233708) by [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86)




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